I’ve had a hard time sleeping the past few nights. Every time I close my eyes, my thoughts drift back to the darling campers who lost their lives at Camp Mystic on the 4th of July. And especially, their mamas.

It’s the kind of heartbreak that feels impossible to carry. While I don’t have a close connection to Camp Mystic, several of my friends do. And even from a distance, my heart feels wrecked.

How do we make sense of something so awful? What’s the right response when the weight of the world feels too heavy to hold?

Maybe you’re feeling it too. Maybe your chest has been tight, your prayers caught in your throat. Maybe you’re awake in the night wondering, “What do I do with this grief?”

In the quiet moments of prayer this week, I was reminded: God welcomes our pain. He can handle our hard questions, our tears, our aching hearts. In fact, He invites us to bring them to Him.

Years ago, in the thick of the pandemic, a friend introduced me to the practice of Biblical lament. Not the neat-and-tidy kind of prayer we sometimes feel obligated to offer, but the messy, honest cries of our hearts.

Lament is a prayer in pain that leads to trust.

It’s not about rushing past the hurt to find a silver lining. It’s about sitting with the sorrow and allowing ourselves to feel the full weight of it in the presence of God. Sometimes there is no tidy moral to the story. No “blessing in disguise.” Just grief. And somehow, God meets us in it.

Nearly half the Psalms are laments. They give us permission to cry out:
“Help, God!” (Psalm 12)
“Why, O Lord?” (Psalm 10)
“Wake up!” (Psalm 44)
“How long?!” (Psalm 13)

The psalmists remind us that lament is not faithlessness; it is faithful honesty. It’s the brave act of holding our pain before a God who listens and loves. When we lament, we expose the parts of our hearts that need tending to and we engage the only Person who can truly heal. When we lament, we allow ourselves to long for and hope in the future when grief will be unnecissary.

So if you, like me, are feeling heartbroken and raw, can I invite you to lament with me? Below is my own lament—it feels vulnerable to share, but I hope it gives you courage to voice your own.

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Show Me Your Goodness

Oh Lord, how does your goodness co-exist with this?

Little girls who went to bed singing worship songs and packed Bibles in their trunks, washed away. Their bright smiles and futures drowned in roaring waters.

Waters, I know you have the power to control.

I’m crying out to you along with those mamas who spent the last month shopping for cute jammies and anticipating the magic of their baby girl’s first summer at camp. The same ones who’ve spent the past 48 hours living a nightmare.

We’ve been calling on your name Jesus. Where were you?

Somewhere in Camp Mystic there is water-soaked Bible with Romans 8:28 highlighted in gel pen. “In all things, God works for the good of those who love Him.”

Help me to believe it! Because, today I’m too hurt. Too confused. Too angry.

These were your daughters, too. You knew every hair on their pigtailed heads, you ordained the day they would gain their gap-toothed grins. So, why did you not help them hang on just a little longer? Why did you let the waters rise so high? Why the youngest cabins? Why?

How could this possibly call any of this “good”? Show me your goodness.

Because, I know in my core that you are good. You were there. You are near.

You never left those girls during their last terrifying moments. You were there, protecting and comforting in ways we’ll never know. You love them with more compassion and ferocity than we could even muster.

You are with their devastated mamas. You are near to their grieving families, the surviving campers, and the other victims of the flood. Through the Church and your Spirit, you are near – comforting, providing, and holding sacred space for their hurt, pain, and grief.

You are good. And, you’re goodness is what I long for. It’s what I cling to.

When our broken world brings storms and fire, help me to say, like Daniel’s friends who were thrown into the furnace: “The God I serve is able to deliver… but even if He doesn’t, I will worship Him.” (paraphrased from Daniel 3:17-18)

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Friend, if your heart feels heavy today, please don’t rush past it. Don’t feel like you have to tie it up with a bow or explain it away. Let’s be the kind of people who bring our honest hearts to God, trusting that He meets us there. Maybe today you write your own lament or pray a Psalm aloud. It’s OK to let your tears fall.

I’m thankful that we are not left alone in our grief. God sees. God hears. And one day, He promises to wipe away every tear (Rev. 21:4). Until that day, let’s keep bringing our heartbreak to Him—and trusting that even in our pain, He is near.